


Nothing else to say

by ineptshieldmaid



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Character of Colour, M/M, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Mr Fischer,’ Saito says, keeping things formal.</p><p>‘Saito. We need to talk.’</p><p>Saito closes his eyes for a moment. ‘I believe we’ve said everything there is to say,’ he lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing else to say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enigel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/gifts).



> This fic is presented to enigel, as part of the help_qld auction. Apologies for the delay in getting the final product together for you, I hope it's worth the wait.
> 
> -
> 
> Thanks to Trojie and Kayloulee for beta-reading and Kayloulee for assistance with Japanese names and cities.
> 
> -
> 
> A podfic recording of this fic has been made by Dodificus, and can be downloaded from [the audiofic archive](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/nothing-else-to-say).

Robert Fischer gets through his father’s funeral with an odd sort of calm, far removed from the wracking grief which had accompanied his mother’s death. _I’m older now_ , he thinks, faintly surprised.

He surprises himself yet again by crying as the casket is lowered into the earth. It’s as if somewhere over the Pacific the years of bitterness faded off into the sky. Robert had been waiting for that moment, ever since he moved away. He’d walked through exit customs on Good Friday, barely two weeks after the start of first-year classes, and he’d thought that, somewhere between presenting his Australian passport at Kingsford-Smith and handing over his American papers in LA, everything was going to change.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed in seven years of education, or thirteen years of working for Fischer-Morrow, and nothing had changed in the last tortuous years of Maurice Fischer’s life. He’d boarded every flight with the same sick, twisted mixture of anger, fear and sheer desperate _need_ , and fourteen hours in the air was never enough to shed it.

Something had happened, this time: he’d slept soundly almost all the way, and when he touched down in LA, all there was left was regret. Now here he is, crying over his father’s grave, and he’s not going to pieces and he’s not clammed up with things he doesn’t know how to feel, he’s just - crying.

Uncle Peter turns worried eyes on him, and Robert swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘My God,’ he says, stunned. ‘I wasted so much time.’

Uncle Peter squeezes Robert’s shoulder awkwardly. ‘Maurice was - a hard man, Robert.’

Robert shakes his head, feeling more certain than he ever has. ‘He loved me, Uncle Peter. In his own way.’

Uncle Peter nods - it’s nothing he hasn’t said to Robert before himself. He stays close to Robert, though, and the concern in his eyes stays too.

‘I tried,’ Robert says, as the other mourners start to leave, ‘to be the son I thought he wanted, when I could have made him proud of the son he had.’

‘Robert...’ Uncle Peter pats his arm ineffectually, but Robert shakes off his hand. Uncle Peter, he thinks, is not as understanding as he used to be.

* * *

The year is 2001, and Tadashi Saito and Maurice Fischer exchange frosty pleasantries in a ballroom in Prague. In principle, their presence here signifies the strong commitments of Proclus Global and Fischer-Morrow to the clean energy industry. In practice, it signifies each man’s investment in not letting the other get one over him, in any field.

Satio meets Robert Fischer for the first time that night. Twenty-six, B. Law, M. Commerce; photocopied papers in his father’s Sydney office the summer after his first year and has been taking on increasing responsibilities ever since. Lives in Sydney, ostensibly to keep a close family eye on the Asian markets - in practice, to be as far away from Maurice Fischer as either of them can manage.

Robert Fischer, Saito suspects, actually cares about sustainable energy development. Saito would be more worried about that if he thought the elder Fischer gave much weight to his son’s opinion.

‘My son, Robert,’ Maurice Fischer says, gesturing to the young man just behind his shoulder. Robert summons up a strained smile: he’s too young, yet, to completely hide the fact that he dislikes being toted about and shown off at his father’s convenience.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Fischer,’ Saito says, shaking Robert’s hand and enjoying the flash of resentment in Maurice Fischer’s eyes.

* * *

The year is 2003, and Robert Fischer doesn’t recognise Tadashi Saito when he sees him. He notices other things instead: the fine cut of his suit, the elegant fold of his fingers around the whiskey glass, the straight line of his back as he surveys the room from his wingback armchair.

Robert Fischer doesn’t sleep with businesspeople, and he certainly doesn’t sleep with businessmen who know his father. Even before he recognises Saito, by the cut of his clothes and the Rolex peeping out of his sleeve Robert can guess that he knows Maurice Fischer, by reputation if not in person.

With whom Robert does or doesn’t sleep is beside the point, anyway, because this isn’t the sort of club where he goes to pick up men. It’s the sort of place where pretty, brainy women pick up future husbands and professionally successful lovers. Sometimes those lovers are even Robert Fischer.

And yet. The man in the armchair says something quietly to the waiter, and a second glass of whiskey appears in front of him. He pushes it toward the adjacent chair, and cocks his fingers toward Robert an an unmistakable come-hither gesture.

Robert goes.

* * *

Saito pulls on shirt and trousers, but leaves it at that. He lounges back against the headboard where he can watch Robert Fischer button collar and cuffs, and deliberately, expertly settle a full windsor knot at his throat.

‘You understand, I hope, that I would rather my father did not hear of this, Mr Saito,’ Robert says, fingers still busy with his tie.

‘I don’t recall telling you my name, Mr Fischer,’ Saito says, more to gauge the boy’s reaction than anything else.

Robert Fischer smirks a little, lets his eyes drift over Saito’s face to his open shirt-collar and the skin beneath. ‘We’ve been introduced,’ he says, eyes skimming down Saito’s body. ‘And I have a very good memory for... faces.’

* * *

Robert calls Saito because there’s no one else he _can_ call. Uncle Peter is out of the question - Robert knows he’s selfish with Uncle Peter’s time and attention, but not now, not with Aunt Helen... well. Not now. Robert ought to be there, for her funeral at least, but she’s not his mother, as Maurice Fischer hadn’t hesitated to point out.

‘You were so keen to present at this conference, you can stay there,’ Maurice had said, Robert had nodded and hung up the phone.

He calls Saito, instead, and says ‘I know you’re in Florence.’ He’s in Florence too, but they hadn’t had plans to see each other this week or even in the next couple of months. ‘I. Fuck. I need to see you.’

Saito, bless him, sends a car to fetch Robert. He can hardly show up at this hotel full of conference attendees, anyway. Saito’s own people have mysterious ways and hitherto-reliable senses of discretion.

By the time he gets there, Robert is holding himself together by a thread. Saito will know why he’s here - Saito has google alerts on Maurice and Robert and Uncle Peter and anyone they have anything to do with.

‘You called my hotel,’ Saito says, shutting the door behind Robert. ‘I suppose you’re aware that half of Florence now knows that Maurice Fischer’s son calls me up and appears on my doorstep in the evening?’

Robert clenches and unclenches his fists, takes one shaky breath and then two. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, although he’s not, because all he cares about right now is being , _here_. ‘I need you to fuck me.’ That’s it, bald and crude and far removed from all the elegant conversation and discreet encounters that have brought them thus far.

Saito puts his hand to Robert’s face and pulls him closer, close enough to kiss but not yet touching.

‘You can’t do this, Robert,’ Saito says.

‘I need to,’ is all Robert has to say in return. Saito just nods, and pulls Robert down into a rough kiss before stripping him down, all efficient hands and hot mouth.

* * *

‘You’ve never asked me about the Cobol deal,’ Saito says, one icy cold evening in Prague. They cross paths, sometimes, finding themselves in the same city, the same airport, the same hotel. It’s fleeting, but it’s good in its own way. Robert, head resting on the curve of Saito’s hip, thinks about all the things his father might say to this, and thinks _fuck it_.

‘What if I had?’ he asks, letting his fingers trail down Saito’s calf.

Saito huffs something that might be a laugh. ‘You would not stand to gain much by it,’ he concedes.

‘I thought not.’ Robert closes his eyes, wavering between getting up and dressing, and letting himself drift into sleep. ‘And thus, I didn’t ask.’

‘I am to sign the deal tomorrow,’ Saito says, his hand resting on the nape of Robert’s neck. Robert spends a moment taking in what that means - what it means for Saito, what it means for him, what it means for his _father_.

‘Damn you, Saito,’ he says, lips still close to Saito’s skin, close enough to kiss or bite.

Saito sounds amused. ‘Will you call your father, Robert?’ And Robert ought to, he really ought to - there are stocks and shares to consider, plans to be made and investments sold off, but what the hell is he supposed to _say_? There’s nothing he can say which won’t blow everything to pieces for him.

‘Damn you,’ Robert says, rolling out of bed and grabbing for his trousers. He can’t even find it in himself to be properly angry. ‘Sooner or later, you had to make this about my father.’

Saito watches him, eyes creased at the corners as if he’s laughing. ‘Did I?’

* * *

Mr Cobb is Saito’s extractor, or, in this case, inceptor. Saito is there to observe, nothing more. He isn’t there to talk, or suggest, and the last thing he wants is Robert Fischer waking up thinking _I dreamed about Tadashi_.

And yet here he is, in the middle of a snowfield which feels all too real, and there’s a brief respite from the pain and the sense of inevitable defeat which comes with his punctured lung, and Robert Fischer needs a guide. Someone to make a path for him, someone to go with him into himself, someone to stand behind him when he faces his fears.

Tadashi Saito thinks he ought to feel something different when he says ‘I can do it’: guilt, perhaps, or satisfaction, or anticipation. That this moment could be some kind of compensation, conclusion, for everything he didn’t have to offer Robert.

He doesn’t feel any of that, though: it’s simply something which must be done, and he’s the one who can do it this time.

* * *

The year is 2010, and Saito is on the bullet train to Niigata, en route to his monthly dinner and polite conversation with Aiko, when his personal assistant calls. He’s a little shorter with her than he ought to be - his staff are under strict orders to disturb him only on matters of urgency - and then she says the last thing in the world he’d expected to hear:

‘Sir, I have Mr Robert Fischer on the line for you.’ Saito’s silence leads her to elaborate: ‘The son of the late Maurice Fischer, sir.’

Saito swallows, filled with an uncharacteristic sense of forboding. ‘Put him through,’ he says.

‘Mr Fischer,’ Saito says, keeping things formal.

‘Saito. We need to talk.’

Saito closes his eyes for a moment. ‘I believe we’ve said everything there is to say,’ he lies.

‘Saito, I -’ Robert stops short, and starts again. ‘When my father died, I had this - a sort of... Nevermind. Point is, I’m still not sure what it is you ever wanted from me, but I’m sorry, I couldn’t be it, whatever it was.’

The tight clench in his chest is completely unlike the puncture wound in his lung, and yet Saito presses a hand to his own ribcage, feeling his breath rising and falling. _I have died for you_ , he thinks. _I may have ruined your life, but when it came down to it, I died for you, Robert Fischer._

‘Likewise, Robert,’ he says, quietly. ‘Likewise.’

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Nothing Else To Say](https://archiveofourown.org/works/423953) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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